


Behind the Bleachers

by JaneAire



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Bullying, Cheerleader Connor, Heavy exposition world building and character building, Homophobia, Ill change the summary later, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexism, So many tropes so cheesy, Writing Exercise, male reader - Freeform, more tags to come, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneAire/pseuds/JaneAire
Summary: Larry gives Connor an ultimatum: go out for absolutely anything this semester, or be grounded until graduation. He agrees, immediately having an eye for what he knows is going to get under his dad's skin the fastest: the junior varsity cheer squad. Turns out he's pretty good at yelling, and those three years in gymnastics are actually gonna pay off after all.| Cheerleader Connor Murphy & Male Quarterback Reader |





	1. oh damn never seen that color blue

Junior year brought me so many things. A starting position on our football team, for one thing, if not most importantly. A shiny new convertible, compliments of my half-ghost father who is here one hour and flying to New York City the next, complete with a platinum credit card he encouraged me to max out as a sign of his affection. I got a shitty job at the movie theater as a penance, saving money as I waited for the ever present sword of damocles to be cut down--I was trying not to worry about it, not yet, not now, when I had important things to be worrying about. 

Junior year brought me shitty Biology classes, a shitty English class where I knew no one because the rest of my friends had placed well enough on their ACTs they got admitted to the dual credit courses early. Junior year, just after spring break had crested it's last over the horizon, brought a new seating chart into Biology 2B, a lab table with obscenities and artfully crafted genitalia carved into its surface seated just at the back of the room. 

Junior year brought me Connor Murphy. 

Yeah. It could've been better. 

\----

Fourth period Biology 2B was situated at the awful point in the day when half of the class was at lunch, and the other half still suffered through a longer lesson during this time period so as not to crowd the cafeteria. It was Monday, an unseasonably cold mid-March that found me wearing a pretentiously vintage emerald sweater, something my aunt had bought me with a price tag ranging three digits. First day back from spring break. 

I was more hungover than I should feel, but there was varying degrees of success at how well I've hid it. We'd reached the midpoint in the day and the headache had subsided--the physical one, anyway. I did my best to avoid making eye contact with Jessica as I headed to my usual seat, trying to forget the way her hand kept finding its way into my lap at Drake's house party last night and praying that she either was too drunk to remember or was mortified enough to not bring it up again. 

My books weren't even able to hit the black desktop before a chorus of “seating chart” resounds, and, sure enough, the 1994 projector was buzzing ominously at the front of the room, our names scribbled out in purple squares on the dry erase board. It took me several moments to locate myself, and, sure enough, I was assigned to the back corner of the room with no sun and the half-assembled display skeleton and a dusty, laminated poster that shared the unfortunate blight of Carol, before and after her safety goggle mishap. The windows were too tall to even share any light here, and, so far from the door, I'd be the first down in the event of a school shooting. Super. I tossed my things haphazardly onto the table, sinking into the petite plastic of the chair, and tried to think of anything but the swarthy guilt that was forming in my gut as I caught Jessica spare a glance--hopeful? Purposeful?--back at me. Fuck. She remembered. 

I was spared the mortification of her actually beginning a conversation when a familiar face buzzed in, legs working too quickly than possible for the heel on her boots, but Alana was already in front of me spitting off her accomplishments from break. 

Alana was one of the few girls I genuinely admired in this whole place--mostly because she didn't stick her hands in my lap at parties or send me unsolicited tit pics. Alana didn't go to parties, period, unless she planned them and they were school sanctioned in our balmy cafeteria at ten pm with awful strobe lights, exactly twenty-six streamers and the world's most tone deaf DJ that would accept less than twenty an hour. She and I were on the student council, and sometimes it felt like she was the only one that wasn't there for a check on their college application. For some reason I couldn't fathom, she actually gave shit about this place. About people. 

“--new seating chart again? She just gave us one before break! Have you sat with Charles yet? Does he do anything? I'd rather have a partner that just let's me do everything and--oh,” she stopped immediately, squinting at the blurry projection through her thick rims, adjusting them on her nose for a moment before blinking again. 

“Oh?” I asked, letting my legs kick out in front of me under the chair, crossing my ankles. Alana had a tendency to get worked up about things; it was best for my blood pressure if I didn't humor her immediately. 

“You've got my old partner,” she said plainly, not an overall alarming statement--except her usual cheerfulness was absent from her tone. Alana’s general pep didn't always give a positive connotation to her meaning--and her lack of progress report was immediately setting of sirens in my head.

My slow brain couldn't make up the confusion before my eyes slatted themselves to the board, tracing the poorly rendered squares until I came across my seat, before finally settling my gaze on the name penned just beside mine in sloppy purple pen: Connor Murphy. 

That. Well. That's new. 

Junior year brought me Connor Murphy.

Yeah, I should be so lucky. 

\----

“I thought they transferred him out to ECHO? The place with the problem kids?” 

More than a few of my teammates had been lost in combat to the steel-doored clutches of ECHO--the school in district slatted specifically for the “problem” kids: the ones who had failed too many times, got in too many fights, the kids with nothing _physically_ wrong with them. I'd heard more than a few stories about the glorious SpongeBob marathons and substitute sacrifices and, really, Connor seemed like he'd fit right in. 

“He isn't like that. He's really...creative!” Alana tried, giving me a wincing smile that wasn't all that reassuring.

“Alana. He set the dissection frog _on fire,_ ” I whispered frantically, chancing a glance at the door and praying this was a mistake, that he'd actually been sent away. Geez, wouldn't it be just the thing for the drug dogs to walk the hall and smell his pot on me? My old man would love that. “Forgive me for not being positive.” 

“Look at the brightside,” she chirped, setting her bags down and adjusting her floral skirt as she sat. “He let me do all the work last term, so just let him be and you won't have a problem!” 

Great. Just don't make eye contact and maybe, just maybe, he won't throw the fucking printer at my head. Great. 

Relief came in the form of Mrs. Chandler stepping in and sealing the door behind her, beginning her usual chatter about spring break being over and a brief allusion to what was doubtless a boozy trip to the mountains for her before dimming the lights and opening a powerpoint on ATP cycles. 

The plastic seat beside me stayed vacant for the first fifteen minutes of class, and I allowed myself a brief moment to stretch in relief, pushing my feet underneath the desk and leaning back, letting my eyes close. The dull throb of my headache was ebbing slowly, even with the clack of the professor's heels and the sound of Alana viciously chewing on a wad of her gum playing a soft underscore to the rerun of last night's events in my head. Jessica. Right. I'd need to do something about that. 

\----

Class was nearly over when it happened. I'd let my eyes slip closed, reminding myself there was only a few periods left in the day before I could hit the locker room and not be left to wonder why I didn't think Jessica's sleek shimmer hair was all that pretty. 

And then Connor walked in. 

I didn't even register his existence until a shoddy canvas bag, stained green and brown on the bottom, a stray clover or two still stuck in the seams, planted itself on the desk beside my notebook and startling me out of my seat as the dull plastic of his buttons hit the lab table surface, clacking enough to revive my since deceased headache. I wished I would've seen him walk in--not because I thought it would've looked the way it did in the movies, all Jon Cusack and Judd Nelson, combat boots kicking the door and an unafraid glare on his angular face--but because maybe I was hoping for something different. 

I was pleasantly surprised at the visibly strained calm he was putting out as he dropped his body into the chair, sliding his too-long leg under it in the dark of the classroom. The only thing giving me a glimpse at his face was the blue glow of the projector screen, but even that is eclipsed by the curtain of his hair. Tangled, mousy, and, for some reason, my brain immediately compared it to the soft silk shine of Jessica's--and, more alarming, there's a voice I don't recognize commenting on the soft curl of his hair, making clear a preference. 

The anxious panic that I'd felt budding at the forefront of my mind since seeing the purple scrawl on the board--he was peering it at it now, and, from the curtain of his hair, I could make out the wrinkle to to his nose as he verified his new seat--was ebbing away now, counting down the seconds because he _wasn't_ causing a scene. He wasn't throwing printers or rolling cigarettes or toying with the bunsen burner on the lab desk--he was calm, catatonically so, and I supposed even bad kids like Connor Murphy had okay days. Maybe I could escape this seating chart without incident. 

I kept my guard up, waiting for him to turn and give me some sort of rebuff or snide swear, because that's what kids like him did. They had this weird chip on their shoulder--this us versus them mentality--and it was up to me as a student leader to respond kindly, amicably, smiling. 

Except it never came. Connor didn't look at me once. Didn't give me a snide remark or stick gum to my bag, and while his bitten, black chipped nails tapped in half time against the lab table he kept his eyes trained on the graffitied desk without taking a single note. He didn't squint at me out of the corner of his vision, the way I was acutely aware I was doing now. We'd have to talk at some point, right? To make it clear I'd be doing all of the lab work? But he kept his absent-minded calm, glaring without seeing, without keeping mind of me.

It was starting to get annoying. 

Not because I cared. Yeah, I mean, Connor and I lived in the same neighborhood and our parents used to run in the same circles, but Connor stopped coming--stopped getting invited, rather--to birthday parties years ago. The Murphy's stopped showing up to block party barbecues. Connor was just one of those kids who didn't have respect for anyone else because his dad treated him like shit or something. 

That's the difference between Connor and I; some of us can't handle the shit life serves us, and some of us suck it up and get a grip. Yeah, there were days a kid when I wanted to jump on desks and cut all my hair off with safety scissors and tear Abby Bensen’s dress to shreds because I was fucking tired. We were all fucking tired. But I knew who I was, who I'm supposed to be, what's expected of me. I could handle it. Connor couldn't. 

The last fifteen minutes dragged on, and I watched Connor slip down his seat until he was practically propped up on his shoulder blades, his long thin body planked in the air. I played soccer with him as a kid, we'd gone to pool parties together. I don't think I've seen Connor’s shoulder blades since third grade. I've never had gym with him, never seen him change. I wondered--

Nope. Not doing that. 

Mrs. Chandler passed out the papers, cueing up an unnecessary bundle of anxiety to light in my stomach as I raced to do the math--was I handing him the paper? Was he handing it to me? I'd have to meet his eyes. God, what color were his eyes? I couldn't remember. I'd have to say something in my student leader voice and it had never been as daunting as it had been now because this was Connor Fucking Murphy who lit Phil Jackson's jockstrap on fire last year and hung it from the flagpole-- 

Connor was looking at me. 

Not really; he doesn't make eye contact, but he was sitting up now, holding out a packet to me with a half extended arm. I was taking too long, because there's a beat, half a second, where his eyes skirt up to me from his paper in a half annoyed glance. His eyebrow crooked, almost challenging, but then his stance went rigid and-- 

_Oh, damn, I've never seen that color blue._

It was all too easy to put on my quarterback smile, crooked, eyes unfeeling, giving him a curt nod. “Thanks, man.” 

He doesn't reply, but I nearly jumped out of my skin when the pads of my fingers brush against his knuckles, lithe and cold. Connor seemed unfazed, hunched over his paper again, scribbling thick-lined stars into the margins. 

I was thankful we were in the back--at least no one but Connor can tell I was having my third gay scare this week as I fought to convince myself how unappealing Connor was. He wasn't special. Just yesterday I'd been pining after how ethereal Zeke looked in the dim lights of Drake's kitchen, spent that night thinking about the padding on his hips. 

This had to just be a situational gay scare. I mean, really? Biology lab partners? I'd been reading too many shitty YA novels. I was seventeen--surely this was a normal thing, right? It's Connor fucking Murphy, school bully extraordinaire. They didn't exactly write porno plots surrounding his type. 

I'd be over it by lunch. I had to be. He just made me fucking nervous, that was all, that was it. 

The bell rang. Connor doesn't wait for me to figure it out; he's the first one out. 

\----

“Yo! Dude, what's good! How's Jessica ride, man?” 

It took everything I had in me not to turn and put my fist through Jason's mouth as I roll my joggers up to my knees. Coach was kind enough to let us do sprints today inside since the weather's such a bitch, and I was thankful. 

Except Cheerleader tryouts for the fall were beginning today. It was hard enough keeping fifty teenage boys on track on a good day; add nearly naked girls into the mix? Yeah, I was less than pleased. Thankfully, we're only running the juniors today, so there's only a little over twenty of us crowded into our half of the gym. It doesn't stop them from gawking when I bark out orders, but I was finding myself a little distracted as well. 

“Nothing happened,” I grumbled, leaning my back against the white cement blocks behind my back, folding my arms across my training jersey and trying to tune out the squeak of sneakers across the wood floor. “Doesn't she have like, a boyfriend or something?” 

Jason snorted. “Does it matter? Dude, she's probably gonna be captain of the varsity team next year. Head fuckin’ cheerleader giving you--” 

“Will you be quiet?” I hissed, chancing a glance across the gym where the girls had their tables set up, pop music playing loudly out of a boombox from the late nineties. Most of the girls, younger, were sectioned off in groups of three for their routines, picking anxiously at their pigtails and stretching. It wasn't hard to tell the difference between the girls who were new and who were veterans--there was a shiny, artificialness to the older girls. They were too perfect, too unobtainable, and it made me wonder what kind of drugs Jason was doing that made him think a guy like him could any girl like that. 

Maybe that was my problem. I wasn't--you know--I was just intimidated. Girls were scary. I'd seen movies. 

Jessica sat at the judges table, her uniform pressed, too small, and I could make out the inches of soft, curved, tanned skin that made her more human than anything. She was too far away to hear anything Jason had been saying about her, but I turned my back to that side of the gym to avoid her getting any ideas. 

“Great job, guys!” I called out, watching my boys struggle across the next few laps. Across the gym, the boombox started up. Cheer tryouts were starting. “Let's hit the showers, yeah?” 

There were a dichotomy of loud groans mixed with sighs of relief, and I purposefully glared at my sneakers so as not to distinguish them as the boys shuffled passed me into the locker room. I stayed a few more moments, stretching, keeping my back to the girls so they wouldn't think I was spying. Yeah, the locker room stunk, and yeah, those guys were my friends, I just….

I couldn't trust myself anymore. It was for the best. 

\----

By the time I finished my solitary shower, I was unsurprised to find most of the boys hopped up onto the bleachers, watching the freshman girls tumble through their tryouts.  
Flipping and falling, I had to cast my glance at the floor to avoid my cringe being seen. 

“Dude! Dude! Dude!” Jason was flagging me down again, this time Drake and Jackson at his side, giggling into their fists like twelve year olds and waving me over. I guess I got the appeal of girls and all, I just couldn't imagine being this excited about, well, kids. Fourteen was a long way off from seventeen. This whole situation was fifty shades of fucked up, and, if coach was here, he wouldn't be having it. 

If I shut it down, though, I was worried people might _see_ and I couldn't have that. Not yet. 

“Ya'll are creeps,” I grumbled anyway, slamming myself down onto the plastic seating, turning to where Drake was unabashedly pointing. 

“Dude, can you believe this shit? Holy fuckin’ hell, man, he's just askin’ for it--” 

It took me a moment to follow his finger, my gaze traveling down the row of girls all lined up and nervous, fingers twisted in their too-short shorts and gaze downtrodden, but then I see it. Him. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb, and I was partially shocked at myself for not being drawn to him immediately. I froze. 

Connor fucking Murphy was standing in line, on deck, waiting to try out for _cheerleading._ It was some kind of prank--it had to be. It felt so ridiculously out of character, but there he was in red sweatpants, the cotton pilled across the thighs from where they rubbed together and an oversized shirt that was frayed around the collar, advertising some church camp in ‘07. His hair was pulled back neatly, cleanly, and the only thing that vaguely resembled the boy I sat next to in class today is the chipped black of his worried nails and a gold chain that hung around his neck, the trinket on the end of it disappearing into his collar. 

Still, his stance was familiar. Jaw locked and eyes disinterested, combing over his competition from where he leaned against the gym wall with his pale, bony arms folded across his slim chest, legs crossed out in front of him. There were hairs just shy of fitting back into his tight bun, curling across his temple, teasing at his knife edged jaw. 

He was begging to be bullied. He had to be. 

Drake was nudging my arm, hee-haw laughing into his shoulder, clearly waiting for me to say something mean. My throat felt dry. 

There was one other possibility, of course--that Connor knew what happened this morning, and he was making fun of me. That was probably the paranoia talking, but Connor’s slate eyes--the ones that I thought I'd erased with every push-up I'd pushed through--seemed to know more than his silence let on. Surely my silence hadn't given away that much; but I'd frozen when he'd looked at me, jumped when he brushed my hand. 

If he knew, it was the kind of rumor that would ruin me in every aspect of the word. 

“Christ,” I muttered, my friends chattering senselessly in the background. 

Watching Connor step up to the plate, no matter what his purpose, was either brave or stupid as hell. Maybe both. It didn't matter if it was a prank--or worse yet, intentional--the guys sitting on the bench beside me were gonna rip him to shreds in one way or another, and the line up of cheer queens sitting behind the fold out table didn't look too kind, either. 

There was a moment, briefly, while I watched him that I realized maybe this wasn't a prank for shits and giggles, wasn't a prank to out me, wasn't even a political stance on school spirit. Maybe this was something he wanted. 

God, and we were gonna fuck him up for it. 

Highschool sucked.


	2. this aint for the best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh, this is cheerleading tryouts,” she spoke slowly, her facing cringing inward as she continued. “You, uh, know that, right?” 
> 
> I held my breath, waiting for the punchline--for Connor to pull the acid out of his pocket and dump it on the floor, for him to scream, for him cheer something obscene to scare off the line of freshman girls just behind him--but it didn't come. Connor, to his credit, just pursed his lips in a half smile and cut his eyes to the floor, rocking up on his toes. 
> 
> “Yeah,” he huffed with a half laugh, hardly sincere. “I, uh. I can read.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild homophobia, sexism, and strong swearing 
> 
> reminder: this narrator is unreliable, this fic has heavy world building, and Connor is ooc.

I'd only been on this earth seventeen years, but watching Connor Murphy slink to the middle of the gym floor, fists stuffed deep into the pockets of his red sweats, felt a lot like I was watching the trial of Christ before the Romans as they prepared to crucify him. From our perspective--an uncomfortable idea, alone. At least twenty varsity football players watching the school's head burnout damn himself to another year and a half of torment--I could only make out his profile. His jaw wasn't clenched so tightly anymore, and the the curve to his shoulders was relaxed, hunched, the lithe shape of his body stooped into an s frame. Still, the wild curl of his hair--mostly pulled back in an artfully lazy bun, half falling into his eyes--eclipsed most of his expression. From here, for the first time in what seemed like my whole experience speculating on his existence, Connor Murphy looked _small._ Vulnerable. For the first time I noticed how birdlike his bones seemed, thin arms protruding from his oversized t-shirt, not shrouded in his usual heavy black bomber jacket. 

Anyone sitting beside me had the physical capabilities to pick him up and slam him to the ground, crack him in half without breaking a sweat. 

There were worse things, I supposed. The council of cheerleaders before him--the holy trinity themselves: Jessica, Sydney, Mallory in all their unearthly glory--popped their KJ lip kit sneers, arching their finely penciled eyebrows in a way that was less than inviting. Mallory smirked, her shellacked claws coming up to frame her mouth. 

“Uh, this is cheerleading tryouts,” she spoke slowly, her facing cringing inward as she continued. “You, uh, know that, right?” 

I held my breath, waiting for the punchline--for Connor to pull the acid out of his pocket and dump it on the floor, for him to scream, for him cheer something obscene to scare off the line of freshman girls just behind him--but it didn't come. Connor, to his credit, just pursed his lips in a half smile and cut his eyes to the floor, rocking up on his toes. 

“Yeah,” he huffed with a half laugh, hardly sincere. “I, uh. I can read.” 

My stomach sank as the pieces of doubt began to click into place watching him begin to shift out on the floor, patiently waiting for instructions. He was entirely fucking serious. 

Christ. We were going to murder him. 

I didn't want to--it's not a thing I enjoyed, alright? But someone has gotta be the fuck up, and someone has to take the spotlight, someone's gotta be the scapegoat, someone's gotta take the load of shit we're all dealing with in our own lives and fucking deal with it. 

Connor Murphy just bought himself a prison sentence and I couldn't save him even if I wanted to, student council be damned. The no tolerance bully policy didn't apply to myself or to anyone sitting beside me, not really. 

“Do you think this is a joke?” 

My attention snapped back up to the panel, assessing their expressions--it appeared to be Jess that spoke, less than pleased as she sneered up at Connor. There was a good twenty feet between where Connor was standing to the table, but half of me was still terrified one of them would fly up from their seat and rip out his jugular with their blood red claws. 

Connor didn't seem fazed, to his credit, just pursed his lips again and shrugged. 

“Uh, no. I'm trying out. For the team.” 

Mallory grinned sardonically. “How very progressive of you.” 

“Thanks,” he grunted, keeping his chin up but his eyes downcast. “I, uh, didn't know we needed to prepare a routine? I missed the rehearsal yesterday.” 

Jessica and Sydney exchanged a look along the lines of _no shit_ and, beside me, Drake snickered so loudly that Connor cut his eyes up to the bleachers, freezing me to my seat with a glare. His hands weren't stuffed into his pockets anymore, instead fisted by his side, his lips drawn down in a sneer. 

_Oh, fuck. He thinks it's me. He thinks it's us. Oh fuck._

“I really don't think it's fair to the other gi--” 

Mallory cut herself off and Connor turned back to face her. 

“For everyone else,” she corrected pointedly, batting her eyelashes prettily. “Who had to learn the routine.”

Connor had fisted his hands back into his pockets, eyes fixated somewhere above her styled hair. Nervous. God, I'd be flipping the fuck out right now if I were him. How many eyes were on him right now? 

“I just thought you might want a guy on the team,” he supplied. 

“So, we're supposed to let in you in because you're a boy?” she deadpanned, quirking another eyebrow. 

“No!” Connor hissed, and I felt the air around the room settle heavy, a fog like silence creeping around our ankles as we held our breath. 

We didn't attend a small school by any means, but when someone deviates from the norm in the way that Connor did, you recognize him. You collect evidence, compare rumors, horror stories from your fifth grade classrooms that most everyone had forgotten but a few. 

Connor was frozen to his spot, eyes on his feet again, and, even from this distance, I swear I could see the muscle in his jaw jump from where it clenched and released. 

“Look,” grunted. “I took gymnastics as a kid. I can still do some shit.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Sydney beamed, leaning back in her chair. “Your sister was in one of my group projects in civics last year. She's was on the color guard. Lacey.” 

“Zoe,” Connor corrected. “And, yeah, we did it together.” 

I blinked. I didn't even know he had a sister. 

Mallory cut a glance to the girls beside her with a stern expression, each of their nails clicking across the plastic fold out table in annoyance, before Mallory rose without fanfare. Lifting her arms above her head to stretch, pulling on her cheertop to expose the bare dark skin of midriff where it curved out against her skirt. Drake whistled lowly beside me, his mouth agape and staring shamelessly as she clipped back her mass of dark curls. 

“Okay, grab the mats. I'm gonna call out orders and you're gonna do as I say. I hope you stretched.”

\----

I'm not proud to say that as my teammates shifted their way down the bleachers to get a better look at the execution, that I followed suit. The cheer squad dragged out the faded blue mats, repaired lethargically with duct tape, the sort of things that smelled like the rarely clean McDonald's playplace you attended as a child on the days your parents were sick of looking at your face. They landed with a dull smack against the recently waxed hardwood floor of the gym, the kind they asked the other kids to never step on during assembly. 

Connor himself was stretching, starfished out against the floor, his reflection visible in its shine, the image of his own body pooled out under him. My eyes were drawn to his cartoonishly long, lithe limbs, able to wrap around himself much too many times to be logical. It was impressive.

I half wished he would've gone out for the football team. We'd all seen him throw kids into lockers more than once, it wasn't as if he didn't have any strength to him. I was kicking myself for not even attempting to recruit him. 

There was more to being a football player than being strong. You had to be good. You had to be a likable person. You had to be a team player and a leader all in one. 

Connor wasn't any of those things. Mallory would be an idiot to even entertain this. 

But she was. 

Entertaining this, mean, not an idiot. I wouldn't say that about a girl, uh, not a girl like Mallory, anyway. 

“Can you do a cartwheel?” she asked, hand on waist, cooking her hip out the side in the way that made me at the very least feel intimidated. 

Connor peeled himself off the ground, seeming to take his time measuring the situation, as if it was worth his time. Toeing off his silly red converse--a pair I'd never seen him wear before, and I'd have noticed--he stepped on the mat, running his sock-clad feet over the material as if to check for pranks. 

I was used to seeing Connor move slickly across the halls, an inky shadow pressed against the lockers, simultaneously commanding the attention of the hallway while blending into the melting pot community that our school board thought was a John Hughes’ film wet dream. I never expected him to be able to move quicker than I could see, faster than I could comprehend, amazed to see his towering frame up on his hands just as swiftly as he was up on his feet, so quickly his shirt didn't even have to time to answer gravity when it called. 

The room was eerie silent, the echoes of his fists rebounding off the mat still echoing in the air, leaving Connor standing at the end of it with a slightly wavering stance, his bun now loose and bangs falling in his eyes. 

“Oh,” I heard come from somewhere behind me, all of us too damn shell shocked to turn and identify the speaker. Even Jessica and Sydney, visibly in my peripheral vision, seemed frozen in their seats, mouths as wide as the hoops in their ears. 

Mallory, still stoic, still challenging, didn't cave. 

“Okay,” she said curtly, and Connor visibly shrunk in on himself with the deniance of feedback, carving his shoulder across the air and into his chest. “Backflip?” 

Again, Connor spun away without warning, and again, threw his body across the air, legs arching impressively, twisting until he landed with a thud on the other side of the room. 

It wasn't an exaggeration, then, all of the raw chaotic power that Connor invoked, why his name smelt like fear, why I'd tingled in my seat beside him this morning. Connor Murphy wasn't just legend, lore, and boogeyman rolled into one; he was powerful, all of it compact in his seemingly delicate frame. I couldn't shit on him anymore, not the way the guys did, not the way everyone did--looking at him now, I knew full well that if he carried himself any other way than the fearful way he did? We'd destroy him. 

He didn't look nearly as lithe and delicate anymore. 

Mallory put him through a number of more exercises, each of them more rigorous than the next, some of them things I'd never seen the cheerleaders even do on the sidelines--not that I would've noticed. Connor, to his credit, executed every one of them in a superhero sort of fashion, as quick as he was coordinated. He kept his shirt tucked at one point, looking rather silly, until Mallory had him up in a handstand and my whole mouth went dry. 

I made a sort of decision then, amid the cell phone flashes and snickers as Connor Murphy crucified himself in what I can only imagine to be his last chance at normalcy, that if the cheerleaders wanted to fuck him dry, that was fine. That wasn't my business. 

But if he made it out of here, I wanted him on the football team. We could use him. 

I could save him. 

That looked pretty damn good on a college resume. 

By the end, Connor seemed barely out of breath, tired in his too-big clothes, hair frizzed and falling into those blue, blue eyes. He stood, waiting still for another command from Mallory, who stood thin lipped watching him with thinly veiled disdain on her face, and a little something else. 

“And?” Connor asked, no longer meeting her gaze when the silence stretched longer than its life expectancy. 

“Results will posted on our Facebook page at four tomorrow,” she stated. “Next group, let's go.” 

Connor was out the door faster, impossibly faster, than anyway he'd moved tonight. 

“Holy hell,” Jason mumbled. “What the _fuck._ ” 

I stayed sitting for a few moments longer than necessary, calming myself, until he faded from my head, until I could be myself again. 

“Don't post anything on a public account that'll get you suspended off the team,” I reminded to no one in particular, a chorus of ascent sounding noncommittally back to me. I could already physically hear the videos being edited beside me on devices all too capable, Aqua songs blaring at a low resolution. 

“Practice tomorrow at four, guys,” I reminded, peeling myself off the bleachers in slow motion, exiting the gym at the back door. I'd have to walk through the football field to get the lot, but I didn't have to say goodbye to Jess that way, and it's probably for the best. 

\----

I viciously ignore both my phone and my mother when I arrive home, both of them pinging shrill noises in my ear between the shrieks of our forks scraping across the bleached white dinner plates. Without dad to crowd the room, the dining room table feels like a hundred yard stretch, downed in bright field lights, casting shadows across my mother's face, glowing up her sunset shade foundation and making her pores larger than life. I couldn't help but marvel at the fact her wine colored lipstick hadn't smudged, not even at seven. I marveled at the fact she bothered to put in on, knowing she'd never leave the house today, knowing I'd be the only one that would see her. 

Sometimes when I'm bored, I pretend that I'm her, tottering around the house in my stilettos and watching soaps until the synthetic loneliness began to creep into my own veins. I really should listen to her more, because I'm the only one that does. I couldn't seem to find the energy, though. The guilt gnawed at my ribs, enough to be noticed, enough to be flicked away. 

“Your dad's coming home on Friday, so I thought it might be nice if we went up to the Bluff and had dinner? I sent your suit to the cleaners so it'll be all nice for that night, yeah? Maybe that girl--oh what's her name? The Brenner’s daughter? Her sister Kayla goes to school with you? She's a waitress there?” 

“Memory,” I supplied stoically without looking up from the vegan tacos Mom had ordered, then served on our fine china as if she'd slaved over it herself. As if I was too snobbish to eat out of a take out box. 

“Yeah! Maybe she'll be up there, yeah? Maybe you can ask her to the prom, that's coming up?” 

Mom strictly spoke in questions, even when what she was saying was more of a statement, anyway. Dad gave her a lot of shit about it, said the uptalk made her sound like an idiot. I think maybe she just wanted someone to reply to her when she spoke. 

“In May,” I grumbled. “It's only March, Mom, I'm not that worried about finding a date.” 

“It's your first year you're allowed to go, forgive me if I'm a little excited. I need to remember to mark on the calendar to order you a new tux. The tailor probably needs your new measurements, anyhow, you've gotten so big, oh--” 

I froze as I rose from my chair, wincing at her tone. 

“Full already?” she asked, in a softer voice. 

“Yeah,” I coughed, slinking to the kitchen door with my plate in hand. “I, uh--practise wore me out, so I think I'm gonna hit the hay early.” 

“Oh,” Mom smiled, using her red nails to push her cured hair back out of her face, staring deep at her plate. “Goodnight, sweet pea. Don't let the bed bugs bite, yeah?”

Answering her questions meant encouraging her to ask more. I really couldn't give her the answer she wanted anyway.

\----

_you have been added to the group chat by **CockMcStuffins**_

____**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:48 pm**  
_dude_ _

________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:50 pm**  
_dude_ _ _ _

___________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:52 pm**  
_dude have u been on school splat or nah yet bc holy fucjin shut dude_ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:54 pm**  
_dude if u don reoly soon im gonna start sendin [eggplant emoji] pics i s2g_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**TheFireMan**  
_**9:55 pm** _  
_JASON DON'T YOU DUCKING DARE_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**__**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:55 pm**  
_n then there were 2_ _ _ _ ** _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**_____**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:56 pm**  
_[devil emoji] [eggplant emoji]_ _ _ _ _ _ _ ** _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**9:57 pm**  
_all hands on deck or Drake and I are gonna sext on main_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ** _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**___________**StonewallJackson**  
_**10:00 pm**  
_im gonna fucking block u i s2g ive already seen your dick more times than I want__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ** _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**______________**Me**  
_**10:05 pm**  
_don't you guys ever sleep_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ** _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**_________________**TheFireMan**  
_10:06 pm_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ** ___  
_RHANJ GOD_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**10:10 pm**  
_fuck i just got the lighting right 2 :(_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________________**Me**  
_**10:11 pm**  
_what do you want, dude?__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**10:11 pm**  
_i wanna no y tf you use punctuation n urbtexts like ur my grandmother 1st off_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________________________**StonewallJackson**  
_**10:12 pm**  
_im goin 2 sleep fuck yall_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**10:12 pm**  
_UNDER PENALTY OF DICK PIC NO ONE SLEEPS UNTIL THEY WATCH THIS_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________________________________**CockMcStuffins**  
_**10:14 pm**  
_[attachment 1]_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________**TheFireMan**  
_**10:20 pm**  
_HOJT SHUT_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________\----_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________I watched the video till my eyes cross, then I watched it again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________It was Connor._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________The footage, grainy and cellular but still obviously him, had been edited and warped and I'm still speechless but for a million different reasons. There's some awful homophobic rap song, one that uses the worse f word playing over and over again in the background. It's edited to look like he was slamming himself into the mat over and over again, until I'm wincing so hard my jaw hurts._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________It was up on the school's chat site, used nearly exclusively for bullying, posted anonymously with a caption of “hope you make it!!” in the hopes advisement won't actually see it till someone reports it. They probably won't._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________There was a voice in my head, the church camp kind, the one that told me to go and shoot him a text--I didn't have his number--or at least be kind to him in class tomorrow and tell him how brave he seemed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________I probably won't._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________It's better not to mess with shit like this. Your survival instincts can't be wrong._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ♡ scream at me on tumblr @sindearlyconnormurphy, todayconnormurphy, or rebels-scum


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